Miss Thyra went and called into the speaking-tube:
'Will Trofast's cutlets be ready soon?'
The maid's voice came up from the kitchen: 'They are on the window-sill
cooling; as soon as they are all right, Stine shall bring them up.'
Trofast, who had heard this, went and laid himself quietly down upon the
hearthrug.
He understood much better than a human being, the merchant used to say.
Besides the people of the house, there sat at the breakfast-table an
old enemy of Trofast's--the only one he had. But be it said that Cand.
jur. [Footnote: Graduate in law.] Viggo Hansen was the enemy of a
great deal in this world, and his snappish tongue was well known all
over Copenhagen. Having been a friend of the family for many years, he
affected an especial frankness in this house, and when he was in a
querulous mood (which was always the case) he wreaked his bitterness
unsparingly upon anything or anybody.
In particular, he was always attacking Trofast.
'That big yellow beast,' he used to say, 'is being petted and pampered
and stuffed with steak and cutlets, while many a human child must bite
its fingers after a piece of dry bread.'
This, however, was a tender point, of which Dr. Hansen had to be rather
careful.
Whenever anyone mentioned Trofast in words that were not full of
admiration, he received a simultaneous look from the whole family, and
the merchant had even said point-blank to Dr. Hansen that he might one
day get seriously angry if the other would not refer to Trofast in a
becoming manner.
But Miss Thyra positively hated Dr. Hansen for this; and although
Waldemar was now grown up--a student, at any rate--he took a special
pleasure in stealing the gloves out of the doctor's back pocket, and
delivering them to Trofast to tear.
Yes, the good-wife herself, although as mild and sweet as tea, was
sometimes compelled to take the doctor to task, and seriously
remonstrate with him for daring to speak so ill of the dear animal.
All this Trofast understood very well; but he despised Dr. Hansen, and
took no notice of him. He condescended to tear the gloves, because it
pleased his friend Waldemar, but otherwise he did not seem to see the
doctor.
When the cutlets came, Trofast ate them quietly and discreetly. He did
not crunch the bones, but picked them quite clean, and licked the
platter.
Thereupon he went up to the merchant, and laid his right fore-paw upon
his knee.
'Welcome, welcome, old boy!' cried the merchant with emotion. He was
moved in like manner every morning, when this little scene was
re-enacted.
'Why, you can't call Trofast old, father,' said Waldemar, with a little
tone of superiority.
'Indeed! Do you know that he will soon be eight?'
'Yes, my little man,' said the good wife gently; 'but a dog of eight is
not an old dog.'
'No, mother,' exclaimed Waldemar eagerly. 'You side with me, don't you?
A dog of eight is not an old dog.'
And in an instant the whole family was divided into two parties--two
very ardent parties, who, with an unceasing flow of words, set to
debating the momentous question:--whether one can call a dog of eight
years an old dog or not. Both sides became warm, and, although each one
kept on repeating his unalterable opinion into his opponent's face, it
did not seem likely that they would ever arrive at unanimity--not even
when old grandmother hurriedly rose from her chair, and positively
insisted upon telling some story about the Queen-Dowager's lap-dog,
which she had had the honour of knowing from the street.
But in the midst of the irresistible whirl of words there came a pause.
Some one looked at his watch and said: 'The steamboat.' They all rose;
the gentlemen, who had to go to town, rushed off; the whole company was
scattered to the four winds, and the problem--whether one can call a dog
of eight an old dog or not--floated away in the air, unsolved.
Trofast alone did not stir. He was accustomed to this domestic din, and
these unsolved problems did not interest him. He ran his wise eyes over
the deserted breakfast-table, dropped his black nose upon his powerful
fore-paws, and closed his eyes for a little morning nap. As long as they
were staying out in the country, there was nothing much for him to do,
except eat and sleep.
Trofast was one of the pure Danish hounds from the Zoological Gardens.
The King had even bought his brother, which fact was expressly
communicated to all who came to the house.
All the same, he had had a pretty hard upbringing, for he was originally
designated to be watch-dog at the merchant's large coalstore out at
Kristianshavn.
Out there, Trofast's behaviour was exemplary. Savage and furious as a
tiger at night, in the daytime he was so quiet, kindly, and even humble,
that the merchant took notice of him, and promoted him to the position
of house-dog.
And it was really from this moment that the noble animal began to
develop all his excellent qualities.
From the very beginning he had a peculiar, modest way of standing at the
drawing-room door, and looking so humbly at anybody who entered that it
was quite impossible to avoid letting him into the room. And there he
soon made himself at home--under the sofa at first, but afterwards upon
the soft carpet in front of the fire.
And as the other members of the family learned to appreciate his rare
gifts, Trofast gradually advanced in importance, until Dr. Hansen
maintained that he was the real master of the house.
Certain it is that there came a something into Trofast's whole demeanour
which distinctly indicated that he was well aware of the position he
occupied. He no longer stood humbly at the door, but entered first
himself as soon as it was opened. And if the door was not opened for him
instantly when he scratched at it, the powerful animal would raise
himself upon his hind-legs, lay his fore-paws upon the latch, and open
it for himself.
The first time that he performed this feat the good-wife delightedly
exclaimed:
'Isn't he charming? He's just like a human being, only so much better
and more faithful!'
The rest of the family were also of opinion that Trofast was better than
a human being. Each one seemed, as it were, to get quit of a few of his
own sins and infirmities through this admiring worship of the noble
animal; and whenever anybody was displeased with himself or others,
Trofast received the most confidential communications, and solemn
assurances that he was really the only friend upon whom one could rely.
When Miss Thyra came home disappointed from a ball, or when her best
friend had faithlessly betrayed a frightfully great secret, she would
throw herself, weeping, upon Trofast's neck, and say: 'Now, Trofast, I
have only you left. There is nobody--nobody--nobody on the earth who
likes me but you! Now we two are quite alone in the wide, wide world;
but you will not betray your poor little Thyra--you must promise me
that, Trofast.' And so she would weep on, until her tears trickled down
Trofast's black nose.
No wonder, therefore, that Trofast comported himself with a certain
dignity at home in the house. But in the street also it was evident that
he felt self-confident, and that he was proud of being a dog in a town
where dogs are in power.
When they were staying in the country in summer, Trofast went to town
only once a week or so, to scent out old acquaintances. Out in the
country, he lived exclusively for the sake of his health; he bathed,
rolled in the flower-beds, and then went into the parlour to rub himself
dry upon the furniture, the ladies, and finally upon the hearthrug.
But for the remainder of the year the whole of Copenhagen was at his
disposal, and he availed himself of his privileges with much assurance.
What a treat it was, early in the spring, when the fine grass began to
shoot upon the public lawns, which no human foot must tread, to run up
and down and round in a ring with a few friends, scattering the tufts of
grass in the air!
Or when the gardener's people had gone home to dinner, after having
pottered and trimmed all the forenoon among the fine flowers and bushes,
what fun it was to pretend to dig for moles; thrust his nose down into
the earth in the centre of the flower-bed, snort and blow, then begin
scraping up the earth with his fore-feet, stop for a little, thrust his
muzzle down again, blow, and then fall to digging up earth with all his
might, until the hole was so deep that a single vigorous kick from his
hind-legs could throw a whole rose-bush, roots and all, high in the air!
When Trofast, after such an escapade, lay quietly in the middle of the
lawn, in the warm spring sunshine, and saw the humans trudge wearily
past outside, in dust or mud, he would silently and self-complacently
wag his tail.
Then there were the great fights in Grönningen, or round the horse in
Kongens Nytorv. [Footnote: King's Square.] From thence, wet and
bedraggled, he would dash up Östergade [Footnote: East Street.] among
people's legs, rubbing against ladies' dresses and gentlemen's
trousers, overthrowing old women and children, exercising an unlimited
right-of-way on both sides of the pavement, now rushing into a backyard
and up the kitchen stairs after a cat, now scattering terror and
confusion by flying right at the throat of an old enemy. Or Trofast
would sometimes amuse himself by stopping in front of a little girl who
might be going an errand for her mother, thrusting his black nose up
into her face, and growling, with gaping jaws, 'Bow, wow, wow!'
If you could see the little thing! She becomes blue in the face, her
arms hang rigidly by her sides, her feet keep tripping up and down; she
tries to scream, but cannot utter a sound.
But the grown ladies in the street cry shame upon her, and say:
'What a little fool! How _can_ you be afraid of such a dear, nice dog?
Why, he only wants to play with you! See what a great big, fine fellow
he is. Won't you pat him?'
But this the little one will not do upon any account; and, when she goes
home to her mother, the sobs are still rising in her throat. Neither her
mother nor the doctor can understand, afterwards, why the healthy,
lively child becomes rigid and blue in the face at the least fright, and
loses the power to scream.
But all these diversions were colourless and tame in comparison with
_les grands cavalcades d'amour_, in which Trofast was always one of the
foremost. Six, eight, ten, or twelve large yellow, black, and red dogs,
with a long following of smaller and quite small ones, so bitten and
mud-bespattered that one could scarcely see what they were made of, but
yet very courageous, tails in the air and panting with ardour, although
they stood no chance at all, except of getting mauled again and rolled
in the mud. And so off in a wild gallop through streets, squares,
gardens, and flower-beds, fighting and howling, covered with blood and
dirt, tongues lolling from mouths. Out of the way with humans and
baby-carriages, room for canine warfare and love! And thus they would
rush on like Aasgaard's demon riders through the unhappy town.
[Footnote: Aasgaard was the 'garth' or home of the gods. After the
advent of Christianity, the Norse gods became demons, and it was the
popular belief that they rode across the sky at night, foreboding evil.]
Trofast heeded none of the people on the street except the policemen.
For, with his keen understanding, he had long ago discerned that the
police were there to protect him and his kind against the manifold
encroachments of humanity. Therefore he obligingly stopped whenever he
met a policeman, and allowed himself to be scratched behind the ear. In
particular, he had a good, stout friend, whom he often met up in
Aabenraa, where he (Trofast) had a _liaison_ of many years' standing.
When Policeman Frode Hansen was seen coming upstairs from a cellar--a
thing that often happened, for he was a jolly fellow, and it was a
pleasure to offer him a half of lager-beer--his face bore a great
likeness to the rising sun. It was round and red, warm and beaming.
But when he appeared in full view upon the pavement, casting a severe
glance up and down the street, in order to ascertain whether any
evil-disposed person had seen where he came from, there would arise a
faint reminiscence of something that we, as young men, had read about in
physics, and which, I believe, we called the co-efficient of expansion.
For, when we looked at the deep incision made by his strong belt,
before, behind and at the sides, we involuntarily received the
impression that such a co-efficient, with an extraordinarily strong
tendency to expand, was present in Frode Hansen's stomach.
And people who met him, especially when he heaved one of his deep, beery
sighs, nervously stepped to one side. For if the co-efficient in there
should ever happen to get the better of the strong belt, the pieces, and
particularly the front buckle, would fly around with a force sufficient
to break plate-glass windows.
In other respects, Frode Hansen was not very dangerous of approach. He
was even looked upon as one of the most harmless of police-constables;
he very rarely reported a case of any kind. All the same, he stood well
with his superiors, for when anything was reported by others, no matter
what, if they only asked Frode Hansen, he could always make some
interesting disclosure or other about it.
In this way the world went well with him; he was almost esteemed in
Aabenraa and down Vognmagergade. Yes, even Mam Hansen sometimes found
means to stand him a half of lager beer.
And she had certainly little to give away. Poverty-stricken and
besotted, she had enough to do to struggle along with her two children.
Not that Mam Hansen worked or tried to work herself forward or upward;
if she could only manage to pay her rent and have a little left over for
coffee and brandy, she was content. Beyond this she had no illusions.
In reality, the general opinion--even in Aabenraa--was that Mam Hansen
was a beast; and, when she was asked if she were a widow, she would
answer: 'Well, you see, that's not so easy to know.'
The daughter was about fifteen and the son a couple of years younger.
About these, too, the public opinion of Aabenraa and district had it
that a worse pair of youngsters had seldom grown up in those parts.
Waldemar was a little, pale, dark-eyed fellow, slippery as an eel, full
of mischief and cunning, with a face of indiarubber, which in one second
could change its expression from the boldest effrontery to the most
sheepish innocence.
Nor was there anything good to say about Thyra, except that she gave
promise of becoming a pretty girl. But all sorts of ugly stories were
already told about her, and she gadded round the town upon very various
errands.
Mam Hansen would never listen to these stories; she merely waved them
off. She paid just as little attention to the advice of her female
friends and neighbours, when they said:
'Let the children shift for themselves--really, they're quite brazen
enough to do it--and take in a couple of paying lodgers.'
'No, no,' Mam Hansen would reply; 'as long as they have some kind of a
home with me, the police will not get a firm grip of them, and they will
not quite flow over.'
This idea, that the bairns should not quite 'flow over,' had grown and
grown in her puny brain, until it had become the last point, around
which gathered everything motherly that could be left, after a life like
hers.
And therefore she slaved on, scolded and slapped the children when they
came late home, made their bed, gave them a little food, and so held
them to her, in some kind of fashion.
Mam Hansen had tried many things in the course of her life, and
everything had brought her gradually downward, from servant-girl to
waitress, down past washerwoman to what she now was.
Early in the mornings, before it was light, she would come over
Knippelsbro [Footnote: Bro, a bridge.] into the town, with a heavy
basket upon each arm. Out of the baskets stuck cabbage-leaves and
carrot-tops, so that one would suppose that she made a business of
buying vegetables from the peasants out at Amager, in order to sell them
in Aabenraa and the surrounding quarters.
All the same, it was not a greengrocery business that she carried on,
but, on the contrary, a little coal business: she sold coals
clandestinely and in small portions to poor folk like herself.
This evident incongruity was not noticed in Aabenraa; not even Policeman
Frode Hansen seemed to find anything remarkable about Mam Hansen's
business. When he met her in the mornings, toiling along with the heavy
baskets, he usually asked quite genially: 'Well, my little Mam Hansen,
were the roots cheap to-day?'
And, if his greeting were less friendly than usual, he was treated to a
half of lager later in the day.
This was a standing outlay of Madam Hansen's, and she had one besides.
Every evening she bought a large piece of sugared Vienna bread. She did
not eat it herself; neither was it for the children; no one knew what
she did with it, nor did anybody particularly care.
* * * * *
When there was no prospect of halves of lager, Policeman Frode Hansen
promenaded his co-efficient with dignity up and down the street.
If he then happened to meet Trofast or any other of his canine friends,
he always made a long halt, for the purpose of scratching him behind the
ear. And when he observed the great _nonchalance_ with which the dogs
comported themselves in the street, it was a real pleasure to him to
sternly pounce upon some unhappy man and note down his full name and
address, because he had taken the liberty of throwing an envelope into
the gutter.